


across an ocean of stars

by calciseptine



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 08:17:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13900014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: The night is deep and still. Stan smells of clean sweat, cheap cologne, and sour whiskey. The blankets beneath them are heavy with the familiar scent of teenage musk—deep and full and intimate—and it is all overlaid by the salty ocean that gently rocks beneath them. Ford turns his head and presses his mouth against the stiff strands of Stan's slicked back hair."One day," Ford swears. "One day, Stanley—just you and me."





	across an ocean of stars

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a couple of years ago for the Stancest Anthology, _Then and Now_. Unfortunately, the zine was not published, but I can finally share this with you! ♥

 

_i. thirteen_

 

The telescope is old. The brass is scuffed and has lost most of its luster; the external lens is cracked; and one of the legs of the tripod is bent. It is an unusable and uncollectable piece of junk, and Filbrick tells the man trying to pawn it as much.

"This isn't a charity," Filbrick snorts when the man names his price. "I'm not gonna pawn something that I won't be able to sell—and I'm certainly not gonna give you fifty bucks, either."

Yet despite Filbrick's initial rejection, the man—out of desperation or stubbornness—continues to haggle. He eventually leaves with a crumpled ten dollar bill and a frown on his face, and Filbrick puts the worthless telescope on a shelf in the corner of the store.

Several days later, this is where Ford finds it.

Unlike his father, Ford does not see the broken lens, the dull body, and the uneven leg. Instead, Ford sees potential. Elation blooms inside his ribcage as he imagines the possibilities; with a telescope, he could look at the seas and craters of the moon, or enlarge the distant spheres of Mars and Venus and Jupiter, or chart the movement of the dimmest stars. This hope is as careful and as reverent as the way Ford takes the telescope off the shelf and brings it to the front of the shop.

"I want this," Ford tells his father, gently setting the telescope down on the front counter. Filbrick barely looks up from the shop's accounting ledger before he responds.

"It's a piece of junk," Filbrick says.

"It just needs to be fixed, and I'm willing to fix it," Ford replies. His hands twist behind his back. "Please, may I buy it?"

This time, Filbrick does not look up at all when he says, "It will cost you two weeks of your allowance."

"Okay."

"And I want all the shelves in this store to sparkle."

"Done."

"And whatever you need to fix the damn thing is your responsibility. If you need to pay for something more, I'm not going to help you. It has to come out of your own pocket. Understood?"

"Yessir!" Ford answers, his voice cracking with excitement. He is unable to contain his grin when Filbrick waves one of his big hands in dismissal; he gathers up the telescope and the tripod, and takes it upstairs.

"I don't get it," Stan says later that evening as he sits down on the floor next to Ford and peers over Ford's shoulder. Ford's arms ache from dusting every surface in _Pines' Pawn_ , but it's a good soreness. "S'broke. Why didja trade your allowance for somethin' that don't work?"

"Because I can fix it," Ford tells Stan as he rubs a soft cleaning cloth against the unpolished body. "I just need to find a replacement lens and straighten out the leg. These scratches are superficial and shouldn't effect how it functions."

"Couldn't you have just bought a new one?" Stan asks. "One that was less…?" He sketches a wide, vague gesture that somehow encompasses everything undesirable about the battered telescope.

"A new one can cost hundreds of dollars," explains Ford. "I mean, the replacement lens won't be cheap either, but it won't be as expensive."

"Still sounds like a lotta work."

Ford shrugs. It will be a lot of work, there is no denying that; it will be difficult to find a lens that will fit this antique model, yet Ford feels he is ready for the challenge.

"The effort will be worth it," Ford says, unable to explain the surety he feels to his brother. All he knows is that when he eventually looks through the telescope—through an instrument that he fixed—and sees further than he has ever seen, he will be content. "You'll see."

"Whatever you say, poindexter." Stan bumps his shoulder against Ford's and grins. "Whatever you say."

.

 

_ii. seventeen_

 

On the second to last day of August, Ford finds himself spending the night on the recently completed Stan-o-War.

"It will be fun," Stan says as he raids the kitchen pantry for food. "One final summer hurrah before we have to go back. Whaddya say?"

Ford should say no. They had only tested the Stan-o-War's watertightness several days ago and—while they had sprung no leaks in the brief hour they were at sea—Ford has reservations about spending an entire night on the water. Ever the voice of logic and caution, he opens his mouth to say as much. Instead, he says,

"Sure. Sounds like fun."

The smile Stan gave Ford, wide and bright and unreserved, was worth the potential drowning.

They head out to the beach as the summer day wanes. Stan drives with the windows down and the radio turned up; he sings loudly and off-key, beating his palms against the steering wheel. Immune to Stan's behavior, Ford leans back into the soft leather seat and watches as the houses and businesses pull further and further apart, then disappear completely. The reed-studded beach they have frequented since childhood is not very far from their home—twenty minutes by foot, five minutes by car—but it is secluded, cut off from the more attractive shore and boardwalk further up the coast.

Stan parks the El Diablo in the small and unused lot next to the unmaintained playground. When he pops the trunk, Ford sighs at the sheer amount of stuff he sees loaded into the space: a bag of food and a case of soda, pillows and blankets, a battery-powered radio, an electric lantern, and an old canvas haversack filled with unknown miscellany.

"What?" Stan asks, defensively crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't look at me like that."

It takes two trips to the boat to unload everything Stan packed. Once that is done, they unmoor the Stan-o-War and push out to sea. Ford holds his breath and listens to the creak of wood and slap of waves. Despite years of hard work and attention to detail, Ford is half-certain that the hull is going to collapse at any second—but that does not happen, and he exhales sharply in relief. He hears Stan do the same next to him and glances over; his expression is mirrored on his twin's face. A moment of silence passes between them before they both burst into laughter.

"This is going to take some getting used to," Ford admits with chagrin. "I know I triple checked everything, but I still keep thinking we're going to sink."

"Tell me about it," Stan commiserates.

They take the boat a few miles south and anchor in the gentle shallows. Seagulls call to one another as they spin lazily overhead and the waves break softly on the not-too-distant shore. The sun is setting, painting the horizon crimson and low-hanging cumulus clouds plum, and the moon has risen, a pale crescent. It is a clear and beautiful night.

Once the boat is secure, Ford helps Stan spread their blankets and pillows on the front deck. The space between the cabin and the bow is small, however, and they have to push some boxes filled with supplies and Ford's still broken brass telescope aside. Ford then goes into the cabin to grab a couple of sweaters. The heat of the day has dissipated and become cool; it is not unbearable but it will be easier with the extra layer.

"You want?" Ford asks as he returns, proffering the sweater. Stan has toed out of his shoes and sits with his legs crossed in the middle of the mess of blankets. The battery powered radio is by one knee and the unopened haversack is in his lap.

"Yeah," Stan says as he accepts the clothing. He pulls it over his head and adjusts the sleeves, pushing the cuffs up to his elbows so his sun-kissed forearms remain exposed. "Thanks."

Following Stan's example, Ford takes off his own shoes and sits down across from his brother. Stan grabs the electric lantern and turns it on. The dim glow does not reach far, but it will be enough once the sun has disappeared completely.

"So I have a couple things, you know, to make this a real party," Stan tells Ford with a grin. Ford glances at the haversack and raises an eyebrow, and Stan snorts at the unspoken question. "C'mon, Sixer, don't you trust me?"

"I do," Ford answers. Then, teasingly, "It's probably misplaced but—"

"Just close your damn eyes and hold out your hand, smart ass."

Ford does as he's told. He can hear Stan open the haversack and rummage through it. There's a light thud of something heavy being set down on the deck and, several moments later, a light box the size of a deck of cards is placed in Ford's palm.

"Okay," Stan says. "You can look."

In Ford's hand is a brand new, unopened pack of Marlboro Reds. Ford's eyebrows jump up in surprise. He and Stan have been carefully pilfering mashed cigarettes from their mother's purse for years, treats saved for special occasions or a minute of reprieve for rougher days. To have an entire pack is unprecedented.

"Where did you get this?" Ford asks.

"Same place I got this!" Stan holds up a large bottle of amber-colored whiskey. It must have been the first thing he pulled from the haversack. "One of the older guys at the gym owed me a favor. I got a couple more in my bag. I thought you'd like that more than some beer."

"I do." Ford turns the pack over in his hands. He feels unexpectedly choked at the gesture. Stan can be crass and careless, but he can also be very thoughtful and sweet. "Thank you."

They spend the night eating junk food—a combination of chips and candy that leave a thin film of residue in Ford's mouth—drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. Ford dislikes the taste of alcohol; he has to chase it with the off-brand cola Stan brought, though the sharpness and the need to soothe it fade as the hours stretch. Ford's cigarettes are smoked between passes of the bottle.

"It looks like a star," Ford slurs as Stan inhales, briefly igniting the smoldering ashes at the end of the cigarette. "A red giant. Like—Arcturus. Aldebaran."

"Vegas."

"Not a red giant. And it's Ve _ga_ , no s."

Stan laughs, low and bright, and flicks the nearly finished cigarette into the water. "Nerd," he teases, but there is no censure in his voice or in his eyes. "I betcha could name all the stars in the sky, if you wanted."

"Impossible!" Ford shakes his head too hard and the world swims. It is not an unpleasant sensation. Just a touch of vertigo, like he has just stepped off a carnival ride. "Not all of them have names."

"What about the ones with names?" Stan asks. "Couldja name them?"

This is how Ford finds himself lying side-by-side with his brother, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. Their closeness is a necessity but it is not unwanted. Stan has always been tactile and, while sometimes Ford is discomforted by physical expressions of affection, Stan's readily given touch is easy to accept. He leans into the warmth of Stan's body as he points out recognizable stars, naming them and the constellations they are a part of.

Stan listens quietly and attentively, interrupting when Ford's rambles remind him of the stories Ford used to tell him when they were children. "The strong guy, right?" Stan says when Ford points out Hercules. "You said he fought a lion."

"Among other things."

Most people believe that Stan is unintelligent, but they do not know Stan like Ford does. Stan's retention is kinesthetic rather than visual or auditory; he may not be as good with numbers and hard facts as Ford is, but he is just as curious and he doesn't hide this fact behind his normal bluster when he is alone with Ford.

"I can't wait until it's like this all the time," Stan mumbles. His syllables crash together, thickened by inebriation and tiredness, but Ford understands. "Just wanna—just you and me."

The night is deep and still. Stan smells of clean sweat, cheap cologne, and sour whiskey. The blankets beneath them are heavy with the familiar scent of teenage musk—deep and full and intimate—and it is all overlaid by the salty ocean that gently rocks beneath them. Ford turns his head and presses his mouth against the stiff strands of Stan's slicked back hair.

"One day," Ford swears. "One day, Stanley—just you and me."

And beneath the vastness of the sky and the ancient light of the stars, Ford has never meant anything more.

.

 

_iii. eighteen_

 

Ford says goodbye to his family on the cracked sidewalk outside his childhood home. He shakes his father's hand, embraces his mother, and runs a gentle hand over the crown of his baby brother's skull. His mother tells him to be careful and wishes him good luck in the same breath. He nods, once, and promises, "I will. Thank you." Then he climbs into his rickety and rusted notchback, puts the bent key into the ignition, and pulls away from the curb.

As he drives away, Ford does not lean out the window to wave a final farewell, nor does he cast one last glance in his rear view mirror. His mind had left his hometown for an amorphous future weeks ago; now, with a diploma in hand and his dorm room assigned, Ford's physical body can follow.

Despite this readiness, however, Ford is still weighed down by the drag of hesitation. He has left something undone and it pulls at him.

"Stop," Ford berates himself, as though verbalizing the command will make it easier to obey. "There's nothing there for you now."

Ford tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles become bloodless and white. His stomach is in knots. He focuses blindly on the clouds that hang low and gray and dense in the unchanging sky, thunder rumbling in the far-off distance. It is the kind of summer storm that looms forebodingly and indefinitely, the kind that passes overhead and inspires trepidation before it leaves without any hint of closure. It is not weather meant for new beginnings but stagnation, and it matches Ford's internal indecision perfectly.

As he drives, the temperature inside the notchback rises. Ford rolls down the window in attempt to cool down—the air conditioning is broken, along with the radio and the odometer—but the wind that whips across his face is thick and balmy. It smells full and sharp, heavy with the threat of rain and lightning, and offers no relief. His skin itches as sweat gathers between his shoulder blades and below his sternum.

"Goddamnit," Ford hisses as he passes the town's sprawling, southern border. A weathered sign made of wood and chipped white paint thanks Ford for visiting, a long familiar sight. "Why can't I just—"

Ford sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and glances at the map in the passenger's seat. The route to Backupsmore is highlighted in neon yellow. It is an unnecessary visual aide. Ford has long since memorized every aspect of his journey, and it is neither the map nor his memory that fail him as he passes the turn-off; rather, it is his weak and unresolved heart, and he curses again as he continues down the narrowing road.

 _This is all his fault,_ Ford thinks angrily as the verdant trees and tangled underbrush creep closer to the single lane's gravel shoulder. _He should be the one apologizing. Not me._

Ford is still livid with Stan for ruining the perpetual motion machine. He has always been aware of Stan's capacity for cruelness—a unique trait born from his careless ways and selfish wants—but Ford has also always believed himself to be an exception. To learn that he was wrong cut a deep and unforgettable hurt. It has taken Ford months to process everything that happened the day of the science fair. Even now Ford is unsure whether or not talking to Stan will solve anything, or if Ford will walk away angrier than he already is.

Still.

He has to try.

The beach approaches swiftly, a familiar stretch of reeds, sand, and vast ocean that Ford has not seen since Stan was kicked out. Ford has purposefully avoided the area. He had intuited that Stan would stay on the boat—they had, after all, spent many nights tucked together on the deck or in the cabin—and is unsurprised to see the El Diablo when he pulls the notchback into the small, sun-bleached square of pavement. Then he takes the keys out of the ignition and looks over at the empty car.

Just like the beach, it looks the same as it had before everything changed. Just like the beach, it makes Ford feel unbalanced.

Ford hasn't seen Stan in several months. It is the longest amount of time they have spent apart. Previously, the record had been sixteen days, set when Ford had spent two weeks at a science camp in New York. Stan had acted as though the separation didn't effect him but, when night came, he had bullied Ford into sleeping on the bottom bunk with him. He had wrapped his arms around Ford's waist and buried his face into the curve of Ford's neck.

"Missed ya, Sixer," he had confessed.

"I missed you too," Ford had whispered back. The loneliness they felt had been easy to accept in the quiet darkness of their room, and the homesickness Ford had bottled up vanished in the safe cocoon of Stan's embrace. It had been so _easy_.

 _Easier than this,_ Ford thinks as he gets out of the notchback. His hands are clenched into six-fingered fists.

The Stan-o-War is moored further down the shore, safe from the gentle tide, and both sails are secure. There is no movement on deck, but that means little; Stan could be in the cabin, idly flipping through one of his magazines or taking an afternoon nap. Either way, Ford is silent as he climbs onto the deck and approaches the cabin door, as trepidation overwhelms all his other emotions.

Ford stands and stares at the door for several minutes, and strains to hear movement inside the cabin. Nothing is discernible over the steady slap of the ocean against the hull. Even when Ford gathers the courage to rap his knuckles against the wood and call Stan's name—the single syllable thin and tremulous—there is no answer.

"Stanley?" Ford tries a second time, his fingers curling around the door latch. "Stanley, are you—?"

Again, there is no response. Stan could be deeply asleep or he could simply be ignoring Ford. Ford sincerely hopes it's the former. Stan can be impossible when he sets his mind to it.

 _Only one way to find out,_ Ford thinks. He takes one last fortifying breath, opens the door, and steps down into the cabin.

The room is dim. Weak, gray light filters in through the portholes, and Ford squints as his eyes adjust. He casts his gaze around and takes in the cramped space: the table, the cooler, the bed. Nearly every surface is covered with Stan's clothes, empty food wrappers, or miscellaneous junk. It is quite obvious that Stan has been living on the boat since May, and the only missing evidence is Stan himself.

"Damnit," Ford hisses as he looks at the empty bed. There are a multitude of blankets and pillows piled together in a nest, and a small empty space where someone had lain. Then, after another useless sweep around the cabin, Ford mutters, "Where the hell is he?"

Stan could be anywhere in Glass Shard. He could be at beach or the boardwalk; he could be at the gym or spending time with one of his many acquaintances; he could be at the arcade, or the record shop, or the burger place he loves. There are too many possibilities and Ford does not have the time to climb into his notchback and traverse all over town. Sign-in for Backupsmore ends at seven and it will take Ford a couple hours to get there.

 _He'll be back,_ Ford thinks as he sinks onto the familiar mattress. _He'll—he has to come back._

Ford stares up at the wooden ceiling as he waits and remembers, somewhat distantly, about how Stan had spent an entire month making the cabin hospitable. He remembers how Stan had hammered down all the protruding nails, fixed the ajar door, and painted the outside walls white. He remembers when Stan bought the table—sans any chairs—for five dollars at the flea market and when Stan found the mattress at a garage sale. He remembers how Stan had pilfered the first blanket from the attic—a scratchy patchwork of crocheted granny squares—and laid it over their bare bodies.

"There," Stan had murmured, his stubble prickly against the tender line of Ford's throat. "Now we can't get cold."

Ford closes his eyes against the memory. Being with Stan had always been simple and right and, before the science fair, Ford would have thought nothing could come between them.

 _Shows what I know._ Ford clenches his jaw as the old anger rises. _Goddamn, how could I have been so naïve?_

The air inside the cabin is still and stifling, and the thick humidity weighs down on Ford. The heat of the season has plateaued; eventually autumn will come and break the spell of summer, but until then, Ford is left to suffer in the lingering remains. He checks his wristwatch intermittently and watches the minutes drag into hours.

The longer Ford waits, the more irritated he becomes. This mess is entirely Stan's fault. He is the one who sabotaged Ford's machine. He is the one who ruined Ford's chances at getting into West Coast Tech. He is the one who betrayed Ford's trust. Stan should be the one apologizing to Ford, not the other way around.

 _This is all Stan's fault,_ Ford's mind justifies. _He's just selfish and careless and **dumb** —_

Ford refuses to acknowledge the prickle of guilt beneath his breastbone. He knows that he turned away from Stan when Stan reached out to him but—who could blame him? Stan's actions were what created this mess, not Ford's. It is not Ford's responsibility to always clean up after Stan.

By 4:37 in the afternoon, Ford's reconciliatory mood has boiled back into anger. His skin feels several sizes too small. Restlessness builds in his bones and, when he gets to his feet, he paces. He almost trips over a small crate of old paperbacks. Frustrated, Ford nearly kicks it over; then he remembers the books are his, and he stops. New motivation fills him. If Stan won't apologize to him, then Ford is going to remove himself from Stan's life completely.

Ford takes everything he considers his. He pulls his meticulously complied star charts down from the walls and bundles his still broken telescope in an old button-up. He takes his pillow and his comforter and his emergency spare clothing. He even takes things he has no use for, like the shortwave radio. He gathers all traces of himself until nothing remains and packs everything away in the trunk of his notchback. Then he viciously slams the door shut, starts the car, and drives away without looking back.

 _Stan's the one who broke it,_ Ford justifies as he leaves the boat, the beach, and his brother behind. _So Stan should be the one to fix it._

It is a dangerous and one-sided thought.

Ford thinks it anyway.

.

 

_iv. twenty-three_

 

Fiddleford McGucket is the first to ask.

"So," he says as he sits crossed legged on his narrow bed. His thin back is propped up against his poster covered wall and his banjo rests idly in his lap. He plucks a couple strings and notes vibrate in the still air of their shared dorm. "Have you decided what you're goin' to do?"

Ford looks up from his notes but does not remove his pen from paper. He blinks: the first time in curiosity and the second because his eyes are drier than he expected. A quick glance at his wristwatch tells him that he's been hunched over his desk since lunch.

"Do?" Ford parrots as he straightens his spine and rolls his neck. He grimaces when every cervical vertebrae cracks. Both his brain and his body are sore; the last six months of his life have been hellish. Between his dissertations—one in physics and one in mathematics—and his collaborations in zoology and anthropology, Ford's doctoral coursework wearing him thinner than he ever thought possible.

"Yeah." Fiddleford shrugs, not looking up from his instrument. "Like, for your research."

It takes Ford several moments to decipher his roommate's question.

"Oh," Ford breathes when he figures it out. "You mean with my grant money."

Fiddleford hums in affirmation. "Always wondered what you planned on doin', after," he confesses. He slides his bony fingers along the banjo's strings, eliciting a thin rasp. "I know you like learnin' for learnin's sake so I thought you might like bein' a professor. Not here, o'course, but someplace fancy up north. Don't know how you feel bout teachin' though. Yer patient enough, I suppose, but yer people skills…"

"I haven't thought about it seriously," Ford admits.

"Don't surprise me none." Fiddleford laughs, light and easy. There is no judgment in his tone, just acceptance. "But I would start thinkin' bout it seriously if I were you. Yer gonna need to write a proposal for that grant. Glad I don't have to do that—soon as I get my engineerin' degree I'm headin' straight to California."

Ford is lucky that Fiddleford was the first to ask the question because as the spring semester begins to speed up, it seems as though every professor he's ever had is around the corner with the same query. He has the seed of an idea buried in his brain that he is unable to articulate properly, and any time he attempts to explain it, the listener has a look of confusion on their face. Ford quickly learns to wave the question off, smile a rueful smile, and say, "It will have to wait until I present my dissertations."

The second time Ford has to consider his future is the day after his final presentation. He is sitting in his advisor's office, drinking a cup of coffee that has sat on the burner for too long, when she leans back in her chair and sighs.

"You have a brilliant mind, Stanford," she says as she pinches the bridge of her nose. Ford has seen her do it many times since she began to oversee his doctoral work. "You've achieved more in the past five years than many people achieve in a lifetime. I have no doubt you'll get your grant once but… listen. The academic world is more cutthroat than you can imagine. Smarts can only get you so far. And this…"

She taps a knuckle against Ford's tidy proposal. Ford feels a contrasting rush of indignation and trepidation at the small gesture, and his free hand tightens into a fist.

"There's a difference between the improbable and the impossible, and what you've proposed is fantastical. This isn't like the search for supernova or life at the bottom of the ocean—those, at least, are hypotheses based off actual evidence."

"But I do have evidence—"

"No," she interrupts. "What you have is superstitions and fairy tales. You're gifted, Stanford. Ambitious. Driven. You are at the height of your potential. You could go anywhere and do anything—but it has to be something that produces _results_. Without that you're just a crackpot scientist living alone in the woods."

A thousand arguments spring to the forefront of Ford's mind but he bites down on each and every one of them. He knows his proposal isn't what his advisor and the university expect, but the longer he thinks about it, the more and more he knows that he cannot do anything else. His advisor knows it too, sees it in the stubborn angle of his jaw, and sighs.

"I know I'm not going to change your mind," she says, voice tinged with resignation. "But if you submit this as is, you're going to be laughed off campus. I suggest you take out all references to the paranormal and supernatural and focus on the scientific aspect. Take this line, for example…"

Later, Ford is glad for her input. It stings to have to change the words—to be vague and disingenuous—but he is grateful for it when there is little deliberation over his proposal. He is also grateful for it when his family comes down for his graduation ceremony, and Filbrick asks, "So what exactly are you gonna do with this grant?"

"I'm moving to Gravity Falls," Ford tells his father. "It's a small town in Oregon. There are a number of peculiar anomalies concentrated around that region that I would like to document. I have this theory—"

Ford uses the same condensed pitch he sold to the panel. Filbrick's eyes are inscrutable behind the dark barrier of his sunglasses, but when Ford finishes, he claps him on the shoulder and gruffly states, "I'm proud of you."

It is the first time Filbrick has ever said the words. Ford starts, his eyebrows jumping up in surprise, and sputters, "Th-thank you."

Shock is Ford's only emotion and—suddenly—he understands that he does not need Filbrick's approval. Whatever support he once sought from his father has been given to him aplenty by his peers and the authority figures at Backupsmore.

"We're all proud of you," his mother tells him later. Filbrick had opted to venture out into the parking lot and get the car while she and Shermie walked Ford back to his dorm. Fiddleford is still out—he had planned on introducing his family to his long-time girlfriend—and the tiny room is eerily silent. His mother's voice carries when she emphasizes, " _All_ of us."

Ford sets his mortarboard atop a stack of books, throws his ceremonial robes over the back of his chair, and tucks his diplomas safely away in the organized chaos of his desk. He then grabs an argyle sweater vest from the closet. It will be too much for the warm spring air, but Ford has recently found that he likes the comfort of extra layers.

"Stan's in Maine, working on a commercial fisher," his mother continues, misinterpreting Ford's silence. "He wanted me to tell you that he's—"

"I don't care," Ford interrupts. His throat aches at the mention of his twin and he hates it. "I don't—"

"He wanted to watch you graduate," his mother continues gently. "He wanted to come."

The unspoken _but he couldn't_ hangs between them. Filbrick would not have tolerated Stan's presence. He was a serious man who made serious threats. When he kicked Stan out of the house, he had also kicked Stan out of the family. Besides, even if by some miracle Filbrick had allowed it, Stan had a warrant out for his arrest. It would have been irresponsible for him to come back to New Jersey.

(A small part of Ford remembers how Stan always did what he wanted regardless of the consequences. He also remembers how Stan stood beside him and supported him, unwaveringly loyal even when it made no sense to be. That small part knows that it isn't Filbrick or the law that is keeping Stan away. It's something else, something that was born in the tender nights of their adolescence, something that was broken along with the perpetual motion machine.)

"It doesn't matter what Stan wanted," Ford says as he pulls the sweater vest over his head. He firmly ignores the way his mother looks at him. She and Stan are the only people who have been able to see past the logical stoicism he projects to the tender emotion he hides. "What matters is he isn't here."

"Oh, sweetheart," his mother sighs, softly and sadly. "That isn't what matters at all."

.

 

_v. thirty-one_

 

Ford's head hurts. It throbs in time with his heart and it

It's cold outside and his head hurts. and there's a metal plate and black stitches like teeth along the superior temporal line of his skull and his

Ford's head hurts. Ford's head

hurts. There's a titanium plate in his skull trying to bond with the bone and stitches that bite into his skin. And. He touches them even though he's not supposed to. Because. He needs to. Because. The pain is real. So. The stitches are real. And the plate—the shield—is real. so real too real it hurts it hurts it hurts

because a few days ago a surgeon—well-paid—maybe baffled—probably morally ambiguous —didn't ask questions—did as Ford instructed—shaved off a patch of Ford's hair—drew a scalpel across the human veneer of Ford's flesh prison—peeled it back—exposed the cage of his bones and

Ford's head hurts. His toes are numb. All twelve of his fingers feel fat. It is cold outside. And. Cold inside. Not in the house, but in Ford

in the places he is.

Hollow.

The plate will protect him. Bill cannot get past the plate. Bill cannot possess his body. Bill cannot

His head. Hurts.

Ford has a bottle of antibiotics and a bottle of painkillers. He eats a slice of bread and drinks a glass of water before he swallows the antibiotic. He does not take the painkiller. The painkiller the surgeon prescribed is an opioid. An opioid would tempt sleep and the plate will stop Bill from possessing his body but it won't stop Bill from possessing his dreams. It won't stop him from lingering in the shadows; won't stop his laughter from echoing in the empty rooms of the cabin; won't stop his eye(s) from watching; won't stop the cold and the hurt.

A slice of bread a glass of water a pill a metal plate black stitches the snow the cold no matter where he goes underground on ground above ground the cold the hurt

A postcard on the fridge. A reminder: Shermie's turning fourteen! A post-script: Chanukah plans? Another post-script: Stan's new address.

He yells at the mailman. He points his crossbow and yells. The mailman's eyes aren't yellow. But. That does not mean they cannot become yellow. The mailman snarls—snaps his elongated teeth—Ford snarls back.

"Freak," the mailman says as he drops the letters. the final notice. the dwindling bank statement. the denial for more funds.

`Dear Mr. Just A Crackpot Scientist Living Alone In The Woods, We Regret To Inform You That Your Post-Graduate Research Has Not Impressed Us. Your Advisor Warned Against This Particular Course Of Action But You Did Not Heed Her Warning. Now You Are Out Of Money And Being Tormented By An Isosceles Triangle From Another Dimension. We Wish You The Best Of Luck In Your Future Endeavors. Sincerely, The College You Did Not Want To Go To.`

Ford sleeps when he must and his dreams are convoluted messes. Sometimes he remembers them. Sometimes he forgets them. Sometimes they are just dreams. Sometimes they are encounters in which Bill laughs at him and taunts him.

"Oh, Fordsy, you think you can stop me? I have been orchestrating this since before your pathetic dimension burst into existence, and you think you can _stop_ me? You? The person who was so eager—"

"Stop it—"

"So naïve—"

" _Stop it—_ "

"You think I don't know every single secret you have buried? You think I don't know you down to your bones, to your very last atom? You think I don't know every depravity and every desire? C'mon, Sixer—"

There is no one in Gravity Falls (in Gravity Falls) Ford can trust because there is a trans-universal-poly-dimensional-meta-vortex time bomb three stories below ground. And. Because there are seven hundred and fifty-five possessable citizens in town. And. Because even if he turns off the machine and splits the blueprints among his three journals

two journals

one journal, he can't know where all three are, because if he knows Bill will eventually know. Someone else has to take it. Someone else has to—someone he can

PLEASE COME he writes. TRUST NO ONE he scribbles.

It's cold outside. And. Eight stitches. A metal plate. A postcard. And. It's cold inside. And.

Ford's head hurts.

.

 

_vi. thirty-one_

 

There are stars ABOVE him—no, BELOW him—no, aro(him)und—no, the stars are hi(inside)m—and there is a nauseating swirl of colors, colors he knows? and colors? he should not know? and

there is an echo—or a _scream_ or a _cry_ —of electricity in his… ears? in his brain? in the hollows of his teeth like when chalk skitters across the blackboard or when the tongs of a fork scrape against a ceramic plate, the shrill that lingers long after the vibrations have vanished, and

there is an unheard thrum of **wrong** ness in his bones

DEEP

LOW

like the universe is breathing in but all it does is breath in—like every atom in existence threatens to splinter apart—like all energy threatens entropy and heat—like the strings that tie all there is and is not together are being knotted and u-n-k-n-o-t-t-e-d at once and

there is a dirty, long-haired stranger clutching at his injured shoulder.

"Stanley!" Ford screams as he flails against the inevitable pull of gravity. Beyond the numb terror, he feels as though he is being stretched, like salt water taffy on a hook—again and again and again and again and again—but s t r e t c h is incorrect because he feels as though he is being CRUSHED, too. "Stanley, help me—!"

There are… mistakes.

There are… things unsaid.

There are… dreams buried like treasure in the reed-studded sand and hopes as dog-eared as unprotected photographs and there is—

"Stanley! Do something!"

his brother

kneeling helplessly in the dirt

wide-eyed and scared

"STANLEY—!"

.

 

_vii. sixty-two_

 

Polydeuces-11 is a moon-world with an axial rotation so slow it takes an entire month to complete a single cycle. It revolves around a jovian planet that dominates the night sky, a gas giant that shines aquamarine and chartreuse against the star-speckled void of space, casting everything Ford can see in a cool, calm light. There are only two outposts on Polydeuces-11 and, hundreds of miles from either, Ford believes himself safe.

That is when he feels the shift.

Ford is on his feet in an instant. He kicks loose dirt over the small fire by his feet, smothering its light and heat; he wraps one hand around the knife at his hip and the other around the gun strapped between his shoulder blades; then he crouches, his thighs tense and his feet planted, ready to fight. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He scans the area, his green-tinted vision enhanced by his googles.

A moment later, a wormhole opens directly in front of him. It shines blue and not-blue, and it screams, a sound that is both too high and too low for Ford's feeble human ears to detect. It has been over three decades since he's seen anything like it but there is no mistaking it.

 _Impossible,_ Ford thinks as he stares at the portal before him. Every muscle in his body is frozen. He had expected a struggle, not a door, and the lack of action leaves him wrong-footed. _There's no one who could have—no. My journals. Someone could have—_

Ford's mind flickers through a handful of possibilities. Fiddleford? Another scientist? A government agent? An enemy? Ford discards each thought as soon as it appears. No, no, no, no. Then he thinks, _Maybe Stan could have—_

_**Stanley.** _

The realization shocks Ford. He has always known that Stan was smart and resourceful, but the truth of the situation makes him stagger. The portal was difficult to operate even with the blueprints he wrote down in the journals; it required a level of understanding that very few people from Ford's home dimension had knowledge bas or the patience for.

 _He did it,_ Ford marvels, eyes wide behind the dark shield of his goggles. _He actually did it. He—ignored my warnings._

Ford's second realization follows the first swiftly. He curses. The words are foul and loud and lost to the growing vacuum of the vortex. It has only been open for a handful of seconds and it has already begun to unravel.

 _What the hell was he thinking!_ Ford grits his teeth as he rises. Anger has always been easier for Ford than awe, especially in regards to Stan. _The portal is unstable. If it stays open too long—no, it's already been open too long—_

Suddenly, Ford knows he has to go through the portal. There will be leftover instability from the event and, once the particles clump together, it will form a rift. Ford does not know if Stan will know how to contain the rift—if he knows to contain it at all—and Ford cannot allow such a risk.

(Whether or not Ford _wants_ to go through the portal does not cross his mind, as he had given up hope on being able to return to his original dimension years ago. Most inter-dimensional travel was tricky and imprecise, and the few people who had perfected the process refused to share their secrets. Once the reality of this had set in, Ford made himself believe that he would not return even if he were given the chance. After all, what could his tiny planet possibly offer him that the infinite universe did not already have?)

"God _damnit_ , Stanley," Ford mutters inanely as he quickly prepares himself, checking his pockets for his gear and his holsters for his weapons. "You stupid—selfish—reckless—son of a b—"

The last of Ford's rant disappears with him into the portal.

.

 

_viii. sixty-two_

 

"There is a chance you won't come back," Ford tells Stan. His voice and his gaze are steady even if his hands are not. He hides these trembling truths in his plan and in the pockets of his trench coat. "When I erase Bill with the memory gun there's—there's a possibility you might get erased alongside him."

Stan shrugs, a simple and uncommitted gesture. Ford has seen the same thing a hundred thousand times and has reacted to it in a hundred thousand different ways, but he does not know how to react to it now.

"There are worse ways to go," Stan says. "Hell, I've almost _gone_ worse ways." He laughs, low and humorless. "At least this way I can finally do somethin' good."

Ford stares at his brother's face. He takes in the gray hair, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the yellowed teeth. He takes in the weary slump of his shoulders and the bowed curve of his spine. Life was not kind to Stan Pines—yet here he is, his hands curled around the edges of Bill's prison, ready to fight.

"Stanley," Ford murmurs.

"Sixer," Stan replies.

"We don't have a lot of time until Bill is back." Ford touches the soft skin of Stan's throat, just above the white of his collar. Stan's pulse is steady and unafraid. "Less than I want. There's—so much I want to tell you—"

Stan curls his hand around Ford's and draws Ford's fingers away from his neck. He does not let go, however; he brings Ford's hand to his mouth and, very deliberately, kisses the knuckles on all six of Ford's digits.

"Tell me later," Stan says as he pulls away. "No matter what— _and I mean no matter what_ —I want you to tell me everythin' you wanna tell me. Deal?"

"Deal," says Ford.

.

 

_iix. sixty-two_

 

It takes months to prepare for their journey.

"I have money," Stan tells Ford days after the children have left. They are sitting out on the back porch on Stan's old sagging couch. Their sides are pressed together, from shoulder to hip to knee, a long line of warmth and comfort. Ford nurses a glass of whiskey and Stan has a cigar pinched between his fingers. "A small nest egg." Stan breathes in and holds the smoke in his mouth. Then he exhales, "Ain't much."

"I have several inventions I can patent," Ford returns easily. "Money will not be problem."

Ford sips his whiskey slowly—he had developed a taste for it after moving to Gravity Falls—and he wonders, idly, when Stan had turned to cigars.

"Good," Stan mutters. "'m tired of problems."

There are fireflies sparking in the tall grasses along the tree line, brief and bright, and there are owls in the branches, hooting forlornly in the dark. Ford takes Stan's hand and fits them together. Stan's five fingers fit perfectly between Ford's six.

"Me too," Ford says.

The boat comes later, in late autumn before the first snow makes it difficult to travel. Stan has a shoebox of old cassette tapes in the glovebox. He plays them on the drive to the coast and sings along, his voice as flat and as rough as it was when they were teenagers. Ford remembers some of the songs—remembers the warbling guitar solos and the oft-repeated choruses—and belts out the words when he can. Stan startles the first time and nearly drives them off the road.

"Goddamn, Sixer!" he shouts. "Gonna give me a heart attack!"

The real surprise comes when they reach the coast. Stan thinks they are have driven out to narrow down their prospects. What he does not know is that Ford has already researched, found, and bought the perfect vessel. He wants to surprise Stan and tries to hide the truth for as long as he can.

"The marina?" Stan asks when Ford directs him away from the dealerships and towards the ocean. "Why are we goin' to the marina?"

"We'll get a better idea of what to purchase," Ford lies.

It is a small miracle that Stan believes Ford's well-practiced excuse. Stan is a professional con-man, after all, and the only reason he hasn't picked up on Ford's deceit is because he is not expecting any. Ford's luck only holds until he picks up the boat keys from the dock master.

This time, Stan does not say anything. He merely crosses his arms across his chest and raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on," Ford says, curling a hand around his brother's shoulder. "Our berth is this way."

Ford watches as Stan scans every boat they pass. Most are yachts—pristine and white—and some are sailboats done up in bright colors. Their boat is squat and dark in comparison, with a large antenna rising from the cabin. It is meant for long weeks on the ocean and it sticks out like sore thumb among the pleasure craft that surround it. Stan becomes so rigid and silent when Ford points it out that Ford instantly wonders if he made a mistake.

"Stanley?" Ford whispers gently, stepping from his brother's side to face him. Stan's head is bowed, chin tucked against his chest; Ford is unable to see his expression. "Do you—do you not like it?"

"Like it?" Stan answers, his voice choked. "Do I—?"

Stan looks up. Ford barely registers the tightness of Stan's mouth and the tears slipping down Stan's stubbled cheeks before he's wrapped in a bruisingly tight hug.

"You—you really meant it," Stan blubbers, his words muffled against the wool of Ford's coat. "You really—I know you said you wanted to—and I didn't think you were lyin' or nothin'—but you—our old boat? God, you really wanna make an old man cry, dontcha—"

 _The Stan-o-War II,_ Ford deciphers as his eyes skim over the words painted on the side of their boat. A tide of affection overwhelms him, warm and light. He can do nothing but squeeze his brother back, fisting his hands in the material between Stan's shoulder blades. _He's talking about the name._

"Oh, Stanley," Ford murmurs sweetly as he presses his cheek against Stan's soft hair. "Of course I meant it."

After their funds and their boat are secured, Stan and Ford settle the rest of their lives. They both assume their original identities—something Ford finds unexpectedly easy—and get real passports—which is easier than it should be, considering Stanford is a technically felon and Stanley is technically deceased. At Thanksgiving, when the rest of their tiny family comes up to visit, they tell a heavily-edited version of their lives. Dipper and Mabel's parents are shocked and perturbed by the fantastical tale while Shermie simply accepts it.

"Sure explains a helluva lot," he mutters darkly over a slice of pie.

Saying goodbye to their weird town and the people that live in it is harder than either of them thought it would be. So too is moving out of the Mystery Shack.

Packing up the shack takes a long time. There are thirty-nine years of history written into the wood and stored on every level. There are experiments—successful, half-finished, and failed—that need to be dismantled. There are specimens and samples that range from dangerous to benign that need to be disposed. There are rooms with secrets that need to be opened and aired. There is junk in the shack too, the simple detritus that comes from living life: broken sparklers and board games with missing pieces, yellowed magazines and periodicals, books with worn spines, videos that skip, Christmas lights that don't work, clothes that don't fit.

Ford and Stan clear the house room by agonizing room. They work their way from the laboratory on the bottom floor up to the attic, and pass the hours by swapping stories and anecdotes. Sometimes they burst into laughter; sometimes they choke on unshed tears; and sometimes they simply tell. Ford has spent so long denying his loneliness that he hoards every detail Stan gives him.

By the time Ford and Stan reach the top level, winter is in full force. They plug in a couple of space heaters and wear thick sweaters and thicker socks to combat the fierce cold that seeps in through the rafters. As they clean, they find traces of the children: spilled glitter and chewed up pens, crumpled graph paper and a rainbow of chenille pipe cleaners. They also find forgotten things: an incomplete set of state shot glasses, a pair of battered roller skates, an old brass telescope.

"Wow," Stan says as he rummages the telescope out of a box filled with miscellany. "Haven't seen this piece of junk in years."

Ford looks up from his box—stuffed to the brim with what appears to be regrettable Halloween costumes—and smiles in childish delight. "My telescope!" he exclaims, opening one hand. "Let me see it!"

Stan hands it over. The weight of it is familiar in Ford's palm. It is tarnished again—nothing a little elbow grease won't fix—and the lens—

The lens is smooth and whole.

Ford blinks. Then, slowly and uncomprehendingly, he says, "It's not broken."

"What?" Stan looks up away from the flattened sombrero he just pulled out and goes, "Oh, yeah."

It is quiet in the attic. The thick snow outside muffles much of the noise and, while Soos and Melody are downstairs in the kitchen, Ford cannot hear them. A thousand questions form Ford's tongue but, in the end, he does not voice one. All he does is wait patiently for Stan's explanation.

"It was—five years?—after you disappeared," Stan begins haltingly, turning the sombrero in his hands so he doesn't have to look up and make eye contact. "I was—the Murder Hut was—no, it was the Mystery Shack, then—it was doin' okay. I was makin' enough money to pay the mortgage and eat and all that, and, well, the telescope was part of an exhibit, I think, and this old fella comes and does a tour and—he kinda gets weird when he sees it.

"He's a collector, he says, and he wants to buy it. Names a decent price. I say no. Names a higher price. I say no. Then he says, 'Mr. Mystery, I will give you six hundred dollars for this telescope.' I won't lie—I was tempted. Six hundred bucks! But I—I went over to take it down, and I couldn't… I kept seeing your face, you know? Remembered how you used to take it apart and polish it, how we used to go from store to store huntin' for spare parts. It was busted but you still loved the damn thing and—it felt wrong, like I was givin' away somethin' I didn't have. So instead of sellin' it to him, I ask him if he knows someone who can fix it."

Ford watches Stan run his free hand through his hair and listens to him clear his throat. There is something strange building beneath the flat of his sternum, a pressure he cannot stop or explain.

"So instead of sellin' it for six hundred, I get it fixed for… goddamn, I think it was about four hundred? Got the lens and a new stand since the other one was crap. It's up here too, somewhere. It took a chunk out of my savings but I didn't care. I was havin' a hell of time findin' the other two journals, spendin' my nights combin' these creepy woods, and I couldn't make sense of all the physics and math I needed to learn and the portal stayed dark no matter what I did and—it just felt good, you know? To be able to fix somethin' for you, even if you weren't around to and—Jesus, Ford, don't—"

Ford does not realize he is crying until Stan crawls over and cradles Ford's face in his warm hands, his broad palms cupping Ford's jaw while his callused thumbs wipe the damp away from Ford's cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Ford weeps, the words wet and crowded on his tongue. Ford does not quite know what he is apologizing for. He only knows that he needs to. "Stanley—I am so, so sorry—"

"Shhh," Stan soothes. "C'mon, Sixer—it was a long time ago."

"But I—"

"No buts, Stanford," Stan interrupts. "The past is past. We lost each other for awhile. There ain't nothin' we can do about that. What we can do is what we're doin' right now. We can be here for one another. I mean—you've crossed dimensions and I socked a dream demon in the face. Everythin' else will be easy as apple pie, dontcha think?"

Ford does not think he can trust his voice when his vision is blurred by tears. Instead, he nods, and leans into the warm circle of Stan's familiar body.

"There ya go," Stan whispers. His mouth brushes the crown of Ford's skull. "Easy."

.

 

_x. eighty-three_

 

The Stan-o-War II is anchored in the shallow waters off the northern coast of Scotland. Ford is inside the cabin, drinking green tea and making notations in one of his newest journal, when Stan comes inside.

"S'cold out there," Stan mutters as he shuts the door. There are snowflakes on his shoulders and in his hair; he brushes the fat clusters off absently. His nose is red and his words are broken apart oddly by his chattering teeth. "S'that coffee?"

"Tea," Ford answers, lifting the cup. "Still warm."

Stan tugs his gloves off, walks over to the table, and accepts the ceramic mug. His fingers are like ice. So is his mouth, when he brushes a kiss against Ford's temple. When he sits down opposite Ford and takes a sip, Ford smiles at his predictable grimace.

"Goddamn," Stan curses, swallowing around the taste. "That's foul."

"I can make you some coffee," Ford offers.

Stan shakes his head. "Nah," he declines. "I can make a pot in a minute. Just wanna warm up first."

They sit in companionable silence and watch the snowflakes drift down from the overcast sky. It will be November in a few days and, selkies or no selkies, Ford wants to be further south before it gets any colder. He's not sure his bones can survive another winter this close to the Arctic Circle.

"I've been thinkin'," Stan says after a minute. His old hands are loose around the mug.

"What about?" Ford prompts.

"Gravity Falls. Our grand-nibs." Another pause. "Gettin' old."

Ford sets down his pen and closes his journal. He has been waiting for Stan to broach this subject for months, ever since Ford had taken a nasty fall several months ago and had broken his femur. Stan's care had bordered on suffocating in the weeks it took Ford to heal and, though the break had been clean and there was no lasting damage, Ford knows the accident weighs on Stan's mind.

"Do you want to go back?" Ford asks gently.

"I do." Stan runs a hand through his hair. It is still long and thick, falling in gentle waves down to his shoulders, but it has been shock white for almost a decade. It's colorlessness matches the pale of his full beard. "I'm not sayin' that I don't love our adventures—you know I do—but we're old, Sixer. I have a spotty memory and your arthritis is so bad sometimes you can't get out of bed. It's just—maybe we should think about retirin'. Doesn't hafta be Gravity Falls, either; we could go to Piedmont, or—"

"Okay," Ford interrupts. He knows what Stan looks like before he starts rambling, and he was definitely going to start rambling. "We can do that."

"Wait," Stan blurts. "You're—you're okay with that?"

"You didn't think I'd agree with you?" Ford's laughter bubbles out. "Stanley, I'm well aware of my age and my limitations. Honestly, I was getting tired of waiting for you to broach the subject. Any longer and I probably would have just sailed back."

"But there won't be any more mysteries!" Stan points out, as though Ford had not thought of all the counter-arguments. "You—do you even know what to do if you ain't chasin' down a monster?"

"I think I might read a book or two," Ford teases.

"I'm bein' serious, Stanford."

"So am I." Ford lets his playful smile melt into something softer and more sincere. "And I mean it. If you want to go back to Gravity Falls—or Piedmont, or wherever else—I am not opposed. It will be nice to sleep in and see our family more often."

"There won't be much adventure if we go back," Stan warns.

Ford sighs inwardly. He understands why Stan is trying to convince Ford not to agree with him—as backwards as that may seem—but it is tiring when he has already convinced himself. He reaches across the table, gently wraps his hands around Stan's forearms, looks him in the eye, and says:

"Stanley, I have done more in my life than I ever thought possible. I have been to the edge of the universe and back. I have been to a thousand worlds and a thousand dimensions. I don't need mystery or adventure. What I need now—what I have always needed—is you. It doesn't matter if we're on this boat or in Gravity Falls or, or in Piedmont. As long as we're together, I'm home."

Stan inhales. Exhales. Closes his warm brown eyes. Ford knows that he still has doubts—he can see it in the line of his brother's jaw and the angle of his shoulders—but Stan nods anyway, and accepts Ford's words.

"Okay," Stan says, slowly. "Okay."

Then he gets up, presses another soft kiss to Ford's temple, and makes some coffee.

.

 

_xi. eight_

 

There is a telescope by the window. It is very old—the company that manufactured this particular model went out of business in the late nineteenth century—yet despite it's age, it is very well cared for. The metal gleams and is free of scratches; the lenses are polished; and it rests atop a beautiful mahogany tripod.

"I found this when I was young," her great-great uncle tells her as he removes the telescope from the stand. His hands and his voice are whispery-soft, like paper. "It was a piece of junk, back then. Both my dad and Stan tried to tell me not to waste my time with it but I was too excited and too stubborn to listen."

When her great-great uncle laughs it turns into a cough. He sets the telescope down on his lap and asks her, in between fits, to fetch him a glass of water. When she goes downstairs to the kitchen to fulfill the request, one of her moms asks her if everything is okay.

"Yeah," she replies. "Grunkle Ford is just coughing."

Since she is eight, she does not see the worried glance her parents exchange. She merely grabs a plastic cup, fills it with water from the tap, and takes it back upstairs, ignorant to the way one of her mothers quietly bows her dark head.

"Thank you, sweetheart," her great-great uncle says when she hands the cup over. "My body isn't quite what it used to be."

After he has drained the cup and set it on the nightstand, he goes back to his story. He talks about how he went to shop after shop after shop in search of a replacement lens, how he scoured antique shops for a new stand, and how he spent hours polishing the tarnish off the brass.

"I got the tarnish off eventually," he says with a sigh, "but after many years of searching for the other pieces, I inevitably gave up."

"You didn't fix it?"

"No," her great-great uncle replies. "Stanley did." A pause. "Do you remember him?"

Leigh shakes her head. She does not remember Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Stan had passed away when she was three, and all that remains of him are the niggle of half-formed memories and stories too unreal to be true. There are pictures everywhere, too: in her mother's scrapbooks, in the hallways of her home, and on nearly every wall of the shack. There are even two on her great-great uncle's bedside table.

"Stanley was… rough around the edges, but he was a good man. Brave. Selfless." Grunkle Ford picks the telescope out of his lap and holds it gently in both hands. "He would want you to have this."

"Really?" Leigh gasps, looking up in surprise. "He would?"

"Yes," Grunkle Ford says. "As a matter of fact, I want you to have it too."

Leigh takes the telescope. It is not the sort of thing a child her age appreciates and confusion colors her face. But she knows to be polite and solemnly says, "Thank you, Grunkle Ford. I'll take good care of it."

"I know you will, pumpkin," Ford murmurs. "You're careful with people's hearts, just like he was."

Leigh does not understand the significance of his gift or his words. She knows that the telescope means a lot to her great-great uncle, but she does not know how long it was broken and buried nor how long it was alone in the dark. She will try to guess—years later when she learns the quiet truth—but the only things she will ever truly know is what Ford gives her:

joy,

an old telescope,

and the chance to see how real love can look.

.


End file.
